


Long Day

by TransformersG1fan271



Category: Emergency!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:27:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10061744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransformersG1fan271/pseuds/TransformersG1fan271
Summary: The crew drink to the memories of a run gone bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If this looks familiar it's because it;s on my DA and tumblr of the same name.

No one was sure where the alcohol came from, as they were supposed to be on duty until morning even though the Chief had said so only until a replacement crew could be called in, but it was there and they couldn’t turn it away.  
  
Mike Stoker was the first, the man sagging into the couch as he took a deep swig of the scotch Cap kept in his cabinet for emergencies. His soot-covered face was set in a sad frown, eyes brimming with unshed tears as his mind slowly drifted away from the thoughts of his now dead friend burning to death in a factory fire they had almost failed to contain. Blackened hands shook as he took another swig, barely reacting when a familiar figure sat beside him and took the bottle from him after he had pulled it away from chapped lips, offering instead a watery beer.  
  
Chet Kelly took a swig of the scotch almost immediately, the man sighing as he rolled the bottle between his hands. Tear tracks stood out against the grime on his face, his usually bushy mustache singed in patches that would result in him having to trim it in the morning, but he said nothing as he drank deeply, wiping some excess from his lips as he wordlessly held out the bottle to the next fireman who took it without hesitation.   
  
Marco Lopez usually didn’t drink on principal, but the near loss of one of his family took a toll on the man, grimacing as the alcohol burning its way down his throat when he took a small sip compared to his companions that were quickly on their way onto being drunk. His own hands were shaking as he thought of the way he had pulled his cousin out of the fire’s way and towards the Squad, never having been so happy to see the familiar vehicle nor it’s drivers. He barely reacted to the pale dirt-covered hand reaching for the bottle held in his lack grasp, gaze riveted on the dull floor below him.  
  
Johnny Gage chugged what seemed half the bottle before someone elbowed his side in a way to say stop, the man panting slightly as the room spun a bit. To him it was like he was still there, life slipping from beneath his bloodied fingers as he fought bravely to try and save the poor men they dragged from the wreckage of the inferno, even though he knew for some he couldn’t. The flashes of the dead he couldn’t save almost were too much, a chair groaning slightly as he sat down, legs splayed out as a familiar hand took the nearly empty bottle into their hand before he had the chance to accidentally drop it.  
  
Roy DeSoto gently rocked the bottle back and forth in his grimy hands, glancing up to his fellow crew who were all slowly getting more drunk or just passing out from the adrenaline drop as it came crashing down the job was done. He took a sip as he remembered constantly moving as he took down information from patients, rushed as he sewed skin back together, gave shots or IV’s, did his best to stem the pain from so many, but some didn’t make it. He knew people died, that he couldn’t save them all, but that thought was muddled when he took a sip, sighing as he handed the bottle over to the last sober man in the room, disappearing into the barracks with a six-pack tucked under his arm.  
  
Hank Stanley watched as his crew slowly faded in and out, trickling out one by one for the barracks in the next room, Chet being the last as he bade his captain goodnight. Once he was alone Hank lay on the couch and drained what was left of the scotch, not even caring at the bitter taste from too much at once as he looked up at the ceiling. He had almost lost his crew, and the guilt of another captain having to deal with what was to come next made him depressed and loss of the optimism he usually had. For now he would dwell on such thoughts and drink, not even caring that in the morning he would be in pain as would the others, or possibly having to deal with an irate chief.  
  
It was their time to mourn, and the scotch in his head only agreed.


End file.
